


th'innocent flower, the serpent under't

by Sanguis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Cecilia Fairbairn, F/F, GFY, Gen, HAROLD THEY'RE LESBIANS, Lesbian Character, Not Beta Read, Other, Parseltongue, Snakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 10:47:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23970070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanguis/pseuds/Sanguis
Summary: Under the bright sun of summer, Merope walks away from the decrepit remains of her ancestral home. Six months her father and brother are to spend at Azkaban, and six months Merope has to wander, unfettered.Merope is a witch. She is not alone.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	th'innocent flower, the serpent under't

**Author's Note:**

> Hey kids, how are we coping during this here pandemic.
> 
> I made Thing! Nobody wanted Thing! We're having Thing! anyway because I spent time on it. Thing! happened because idle thoughts distracted me away from the main fic. I regret nothing!
> 
> Disclaimer: Uh, I don’t live in a village and never have*. Cheers.
> 
> *In England, anyway; the place I currently still live at exists in the liminal space between village-town and city.
> 
> So, anyway, who's up for some alternate history

Her house is empty.

It is _her_ house—for now. She should, perhaps, thank Morfin for cursing Tom with hives, thank her father for being so violent that he would attack officers of the law. Yes, thankful. She should feel thankful.

Merope is empty.

It’s not a new sensation. As far as Merope knows, it’s the only feeling she’s had since birth. She had been the quiet child, the nothing child—filthy mongrel, squib, unknowing, untalented, unmagical, unworthy. Slytherin’s locket is heavy around her neck—gaudy, ugly, just like her. Morfin is right; Tom would never want her, anyway.

It hardly matters. She is cold, and she is alone, pain in her side, facing the door.

The sun goes down, and it grows colder. Creatures moan into the night, critters sniff, and spiders crawl. She has nothing to cover her body with, but that is hardly new. Merope does not move.

The sun rises, and the critters are gone. Light comes in from the door, which is slanted open just so. Early morning has as little to give to her as the day before; she has no purpose, no one to tell her what to do and when to do it. She only has her silence, her rags of grey that help her become one with the stones beneath her. The night fevers have not taken her.

Movement. It slithers through the open door, a long silhouette that narrows to a tail. An adder, like the one Morfin had so cruelly nailed to the door as a warning. It comes to her, body gliding elegantly over the icy floor, with its big yellow eyes and it’s red, trembling tongue.

It stares at her. She stares back. The sun moves in that time, and so does Merope’s entire world.

“Nobody can hurt you anymore,” she tells the adder. Her voice echoes lightly, bouncing off the walls, and the adder stares on, unblinking. Its pale, thin tongue flickers in and out. In and out. 

Perhaps this isn’t about the adder.

She sits up. The world is a blur, and then many things are double. After a moment, it all settles and her world flattens, the way it often does. The adder—it’s the same adder from yesterday, the one Morfin would have tormented had he gotten the chance, but now it winds itself around Merope’s arm, just under her sleeve. It seeks warmth. Odd, then, that it comes to her.

The door is three steps away. The edge of the overhanging forest, to the path and the end of their land, is fifty more steps. Merope has to count them; as a child it had been a game, and as she had grown, it had become a necessity. Her world is deceptively flat.

The path is a hundred-and-seventy-three steps by her last reckoning. Then she is stood on one of the hills, looking at the valley. The sign is some twenty steps away, not that Merope can read it. She knows where Little Hangleton is—ahead.

On the twelfth of June of 1925, the tramp’s daughter wanders into Little Hangleton. An apparition would have caused less commotion.

The sun is bright.

And it’s not that Merope has not been here before, often at dusk when the light doesn’t hurt and the world is less full. It’s that no one really had ever _seen_ her, the unwanted progeny, the dirty, frail creature. Today she wants to be found. Today she needs to be seen.

A constable approaches her, this fragile thing with knobby knees and clothes that have run thinner than paper. She’s more of a threat than he could ever imagine, than even she dares think of. He tries to touch her; she flinches.

“Miss,” he says. He’s old and greying, like her father, and yet not. He’s not a kind man; Merope sees that in his steely grey eyes, but he does have a daughter of an age with her. “Miss, you can’t be wandering the streets like that.”

Imagine the outrage—a vagrant girl on these clean streets, among the houses and the little shops, between the neatly cut hedges and the perfectly manicured lawns. Good that he cannot see the little adder that has sought refuge under Merope’s clothes.

“I’m alone,” Merope says in a thin, frail voice. “My father and brother—gone. To Azkaban.”

The constable doesn't know what Azkaban is, of course. He shouldn't know, and she's not allowed to tell. Would they come for her? Merope hasn’t told him about magic, about Bob Ogden and the Ministry, and so they can’t touch her, come take her away like they’d done with father and Morfin. But her father _is_ gone, and this constable has heard _stories_ of Marvolo Gaunt, and has pulled off that mad lad Morfin off of many a young man, shrieking about _filth—muggles—heir—Slytherin,_ but the only thing Morfin is the heir to is a patch dying land and a shack full of dirt.

Merope considers all of this, her eyes staring in different directions, and at the same time, the constable ponders her fate. He can’t throw her in a cell; she’s not done anything to warrant that and he knows it. He should throw her into the cell simply for being related to Morfin.

“Come along, lass,” he says, making perhaps a kinder decision. The squire would decide her fate.

Little Hangleton has its village hall down the foot of the same hill on which the Riddle house perches. This makes it easy for Thomas Riddle, Esquire, to come down every morning and arrive at ten precisely, to deal with whatever legal affairs bothering the village at the moment, before retiring back home at around three. This gives the villagers a four hour window of opportunity to approach the local magistrate with their problems.

A clock strikes twice. At this very moment, his wife Mary would have arrived with tea and perfectly cut sandwiches. On particularly lovely, sunny days, they sit outside on the porch. Merope has observed them in their quaint little ritual many a time as she’d passed by, unnoticed.

Today she is not unnoticed. Today she is led through the doors of the village hall, with its old but well-kept stone, its polished windows and polished _everything_. She feels the doorway for its little step up so she doesn’t trip over it. The hall is empty, though on her visits to the village, Merope had seen several people walk in and out, and sometimes they would speak of meetings and dances that are supposed to take place here.

In the back sits an office, and that is where the constable takes her. He knocks thrice on the wooden door, waits for the, “Come in!” and does so, Merope close behind.

Thomas Riddle Sr. is a handsome man, something his son clearly inherited from him. His dark hair has gone grey at the temples. Unlike his son, Thomas’ eyes are blue; Tom’s dark eyes come from his mother, who currently stands by her husband, having just delivered his lunch.

“What,” says Mr Riddle, “is this?”

Around Merope’s arm, the adder coils tighter. It must not like the sharp tone of Mr Riddle’s voice, the accusatory inflection.

“Found her wandering the streets, sir,” the constable explains. “Says the old sc—Gaunt and his son have gone.”

“They’ve been taken to Azkaban,” Merope says blankly. There’s relief in repeating those words, and maybe it seeps out. Maybe.

“To—what?” Mr Riddle says intelligently.

“Prison, dear,” says his wife. Something in the way she says it is...odd. Mary Riddle stares back at her, prim and proper, brown hair gleaming and perfectly coiffed. After a moment, Mrs Riddle says, “Thank you, constable. My husband will handle this.”

Cue given, the constable departs—relieved, Merope thinks, at not having to make any sort of choice regarding her. Mr Riddle sends his wife a _look_. It’s not anger precisely; Merope knows the face of anger too well. Mrs Riddle weathers the glare with absolutely no change in her composure.

“So,” says Mr Riddle. “Your father and brother have gone to—” he presses his lips together. “Prison.”

“Yes.” And she can almost see him think, see the _good riddance_ that nearly comes to his lips. Nearly.

“For how long?”

“I…” What had the people from the ministry said? Had they mentioned it at all? It’s all a blur, mixed with the shock that those people had come to the door, dressed in their robes and with their wands at the ready. “I don’t know. They were taken away, and I was left.”

“What do you...intend to do?”

Merope shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“Do you have any money?”

“No.” Of course not. Father had had the money, the little coins which he’d dole out from time to time when she needed to fetch them food. The only thing of value that she has is the heavy necklace that rests against her bosom. She could sell it, perhaps.

Perhaps she should. What has Salazar Slytherin ever done for her?

But no, she can already hear her father _screaming_ at her—the indignation, the insult, that she would _do_ such a thing with this precious heirloom, this last vestige of their powerful and noble lineage. No, then.

Then Mrs Riddle says, “Can’t we take her in?”

“Mary…” Mr Riddle says, like a warning.

“Well, look at her,” Mrs Riddle continues. “She’s in rags, Thomas, rags! No girl deserves that, darling; be reasonable. She’s alone. She’s never had a mother, and now her father and brother are gone. Do you suggest she wander the streets, a vagrant?”

That should sting. All of it should sting; _she’s never had a mother._ Merope doesn’t even remember her mother’s name; her father had flown into a rage whenever she’d asked about this ever-elusive figment of a mother. Long ago, as a small child, Merope had tried to imagine the shape of her mother—that she’d be nice, perhaps, that she would sing and smile. It hardly mattered now, did it? She is indeed alone, effectively an orphan.

 _Wandering the streets like a vagrant_. It almost makes her laugh; she can hear her father say, _We are heirs of Slytherin! Not lowly, filthy vagrants—heirs to the great and noble house—_ but that doesn’t matter, either. They’ve always been vagrants and scamps to everyone around them.

Mrs Riddle’s words do seem to have an effect on her husband. He looks over Merope, likely imagining what it would be like to have her wandering about in her rags, marring the pretty little streets of Little Hangleton with her presence.

And Thomas Riddle sighs. “You’ve always wanted a daughter.”

So, on the twelfth of June of 1925, the tramp’s daughter wanders into Little Hangleton and, more outrageously, she is welcomed into the Riddle manor—not as a maid, not as a worker, but as a _guest_.

The manor is beautiful, of course—the most beautiful house Merope has ever seen. Secretly, she had always wished to live here, in these stately, opulent rooms, with their beautiful large windows, the floors of wood, the garden with its pretty flowers.

The very first room she gets to know intimately contains a bath. A maid takes her there and hands her a towel, then departs quickly. Alone again, Merope first stares at the tub of steaming water, then undresses. The adder still clings to her arm, but lifts its head, curious at the hot water.

And it _is_ hot, pleasantly so when Merope sinks into it. Her adder finds its way around a pipe, hissing contentedly about _warm_ and _good_.

“ _Careful you don’t burn,_ ” she warns softly. Her voice sounds strange to her own ears, perhaps because this is now the warmest she has ever felt.

Eventually, though, she has to leave the water. The adder hides again under the sleeve of Merope’s robe, a thing of such fluff and softness she is tempted to wear it forever.

A maid points her toward ‘her’ room, a notion Merope gets to bask in as she navigates her way through the corridor, mapping its dimensions. There’s danger and euphoria in it, in having to teach herself the paths through this house, the feel of the wood beneath her feet, the slight raise that indicates a carpet, the feel of the fabric beneath her feet.

Her new room isn’t too far. Mrs Riddle waits for her there, leaning against the desk. A long cigarette holder held fast between her fingers, Mary Riddle looks over Merope, then points to the foot of the bed, where some folded clothes lay ready.

Grateful, curious, Merope goes to inspect them. It’s nothing like she’s ever worn before—light blue gingham, loose around the chest and waist, a white belt to tie it low on the hips. The skirt of it reaches the top of her calves, and that is the shortest dress she’s ever seen. There’s a pair of white stockings and a nice blue blazer to go with it, as well as a pair of shiny black shoes.

Mrs Riddle says, “I’ve had to guess your size, but if they don’t yet fit well, I can modify them again.”

“Th-thank you.”

Briefly, Merope pictures the dress she has worn for years—grey, threadbare, patches here and there holding it together, the stitches unfurling at places, more oil stains than real fabric. In contrast, this new thing in her hands feels strong. She’s seen young ladies trotting about in the newest fashions, and now she gets that chance, too.

Would that Morfin and her father could see her now.

“So,” Mrs Riddle says through Merope’s reverie, “Marvolo Gaunt and his son got sent to Azkaban. Never thought I’d see the day.”

And that, something in the way she says it, the ease with which the words fall from her lips, is what connects the dots in Merope’s mind. “You’re a witch.”

A wry smile plays on Mrs Riddle’s lips. “You’re more astute than we give you credit for.” She takes a drag off her cigarette, blows out the smoke like it’s art. “You don’t own a wand, do you?”

Merope shakes her head. Morfin had had a wand, had _shared_ a wand with their father, really. She’d never been allowed one, not when she could barely do anything beyond withstanding the blows of her father’s fists.

“I—I’m a squib,” Merope says carefully. “Father said so.”

Mrs Riddle’s brow twitches. “Are you, really? A pity, then.” She stands up, and even that is a graceful thing. “Well, get dressed. Then we can do something about your hair.”

Then Mrs Riddle is gone, the door closing behind her with a soft thud. Merope has a room to herself— _to herself_. A room in the house of another witch, _a witch._ What would Morfin say of that now—Tom is of magical stock after all, the Riddles not at all the _filthy muggles_ her father had so fervently cursed them for.

Merope smiles.

After she dresses, she leaves the adder behind on the windowsill, where a ray of sunshine warms the wood. “Stay here,” she tells it. “ _Don’t get caught._ ”

_‘Something about your hair’_ happens in a salon in Great Hangleton. Mrs Riddle drives them the five short miles to town, whilst Merope tries her hardest to keep her heart from jumping from its place in her chest. By contrast, her hostess is the picture of calm.

With the sun out, more people are out and about than Merope has ever seen in Little Hangleton. Much like the town, the salon is lively, and there’s _music_ playing in the background. Between that and the many strange new scents, Merope doesn’t know what to do with herself, and she rather misses her adder now.

“—for this young lady,” Mrs Riddle is saying to a middle-aged, chestnut-haired woman clad in white. “Something more modern."

The hairstylist looks far too pleased. “I’ve got just the thing, madam. It’s very popular in the colonies!”

The process is painful, and not only because Merope loses a chunk of her hair—it’s washed, pulled at, treated with extreme heat, and then combed again while her scalp feels every bristle as if they were needles. The result is a short bob—a ‘Charleston Bob’, the lady calls it, saying, “You won’t ever be an earth-shattering beauty, but you’ll have the most fashionable hair in town!”

Those words linger.

She does look entirely different in the mirror. It’s not terrible, but it sends Merope’s heart a-pounding.

This is merely a beginning. In the days that follow come several appointments: an impromptu visit to a tailor—a man of age already, tall and pious as he prods and measures Merope’s body and calls her ‘too thin’, then a shorter visit with a strange man who looks at Merope’s eyes. She has to sit very still the entire time, feel his breath against her skin. It’s not an unpleasant experience, just strange in an altogether inexplicable way, if only because she doesn’t understand what this blond, greying man is doing with his instruments, nor why. 

That is, until the eye-glasses arrive. They are round, black things with golden legs that hook around her ears, the glass thick and heavy, sitting awkwardly on her face. For the first time in her life, Merope can see what she assumes is _depth_ , that elusive thing that she’s had to measure with her hands and feet. The spectacles should also, Mrs Riddle explains, help correct the position of her eyes.

In all of this, she sees Tom exactly once.

It is her second day here, her first morning. The adder, yet unnamed, hides quietly under Merope’s sleeve, the soft press of its thin body reassuring in this time of great change. They’re sat outside under a large parasol; the sun has been insistent this summer.

Mrs Riddle is talking. “We will need a tutor to teach you your letters, of course; that’s a good place to start. Then we shall see if we can’t get you a proper job somewhere—oh, Tom, you’re up. Come join us, darling.”

He comes through the door smiling, then stops dead in his tracks, his handsome face losing the beatific smile Merope could once only admire from afar. There’s not even the smallest hint of the hives Morfin had cursed him with, his skin as smooth and even-toned as it has always been. His eyes dart between his mother and Merope.

“What is _that?_ ” Tom says, sneering.

His mother arches a brow. “This is a person, and her name is Merope. She is to stay with us for a time.”

Tom’s face does something complicated, something Merope hasn’t seen before and cannot, therefore, interpret. It settles on something placidly neutral, upon which he says, “If she must.” Then he leans down to kiss his mother’s cheek. He does not join them for breakfast.

 _He’d never even look at you, let alone have you,_ Morfin’s voice echoes. Her own, less mocking voice whispers underneath it.

It’s a strange settling, this new life—full of softness and bright lights, of flowers and afternoon tea, of learning fancy needlework and pricking her own finger countless times.

Mrs Riddle isn’t a kind woman, nor a warm one where Merope is concerned, but she isn’t cruel. She doesn’t strike with her fists when Merope stumbles and loses grip of her plate, she doesn’t _yell._

She is also the only witch in this manor.

Mary Riddle, born Mary Burke, a daughter of the prestigious and thoroughly pure-blooded Burke family. Mary had not been disowned as such upon marrying a muggle, but she had, effectively, lost her place in the Burke family and had had little contact with them since. It had not helped her case that the son she had eventually born is a squib.

Mr Riddle does not speak to Merope often, and when he does, it’s only to ask her how she fares. Once, he asks her if she likes her eye-glasses, to which Merope answers with a shrug. It’s not a matter of liking; the thing merely helps her see the world anew.

She almost falls into the trap of thinking the man utterly _dull_ , until she spots a picture of him in an odd sort of outfit—fully white from head to toe, with a flat cap and the oddest eye-glasses perched atop his head. Mr Riddle stands next to an even stranger-looking car, something thinner and more pointed in the back, with a large number 15 written on it.

“Automobiles have replaced horses in racing!” He declares proudly when he sees her looking at the picture. “I came in third that day. In the next race, I shall win!”

The very thought that these automobiles could be used in races boggles the mind; Merope is _loathe_ to step into one again—that bizarre metal apparatus that can go at ungodly speeds. But the glint in Mr Riddle’s eyes speaks of something deep and daring, and Merope respects that.

Thomas Jr., like his father, wishes to practice law. As soon as the summer ends, he is to start his degree in London. This is not strictly necessary to become justice of peace over Little Hangleton nor even the village leader; Tom will take that mantle simply by virtue of his birth. Still, Tom wishes to be formally educated in matters of the law, and to one day become a judge.

In the meantime, he enjoys the summer sun in the garden, and goes out horse-riding with Cecilia. Merope only sees him through windows and from afar; he is keen to avoid her whenever possible, and when he cannot (at dinner), he simply pretends she is not there.

Everything has changed. Nothing has changed. _He’d never even look at you, let alone have you._ Each time the thought repeats itself, it comes with more resignation.

This is a family that, while not tender, at least holds love for each other, at least laughs and smiles without malice. It has Merope waking in the darkest hours of the night, sweating, heart beating too fast, seeing the shape of her brother in the obscured corners of her new bedroom, hearing her father’s voice in the rustle of the trees— _traitor, filth, muggle-lover._

But the adder is there, always on the pillow beside her, sleeping like an angel. _Marceline,_ Merope decides on a whim. They’ve been together for a month by then, with this little adder as Merope’s constant, secret companion. It is a reminder of where Merope has come from—dirt, rags, _Slytherin._

“What’s that necklace you carry around?” Mrs Riddle—Mary, she insists now, asks one day. Merope is practicing her letters under the keen-eyed supervision of her hostess, the pen still uneasy in her hand, and her letters still crooked and tremorous in odd places. “Gaudy thing—does not suit your bone structure at all, and it needs a good cleaning. Is it some sort of heirloom?”

Merope’s hand automatically goes to the necklace, its pendant with the green stones. “It belonged to Salazar Slytherin.”

“Slytherin?” Mary straightens just slightly. “ _The_ Salazar Slytherin? Well, it must be; there aren’t many.” She eyes Merope, gaze sharp and calculating, her opinion readjusting. “Not just some delusional pauper’s daughter, after all, are you?”

What does one answer to that?

The days come and go, the sun ever-bright, and Merope enjoying it properly for the first time. Her letters improve, as does her pronunciation of them. She learns to dance with Mr Riddle, under the watchful eye of his wife. He laughs _with_ her, calling her mistakes ‘charming’, though he never truly learns to talk with her in an easy manner.

She steps on his toes. He laughs at this, too. Never at _her_ , though.

They go to church every Sunday, which is a tedious, monotonous affair that Merope takes to with a certain fastidiousness. The pastor there has never seen her before, and thus insists she ought be baptised and promptly pass her first Holy Communion.

This is how, in her second month of freedom, Merope loses her Sundays to the church. Cecilia is there, not because she has to pass, too, but because she is the pastor’s daughter and sits with the children who have all been sent to Sunday School.

Marceline sits through a single hour of catechesis before she takes to the nearby field, where the wind bothers the daisies, and no one at all bothers her with tales of Jesus Christ of Nazareth and his apostles.

To Merope, this Jesus of Nazareth sounds like he may have been a Jewish wizard seeking to free his people from the tyranny of Rome, for which he was then summarily executed. She relays this to Mary on a Sunday afternoon as she practices her writing, this time memorising the Credo; _I believe in one God, the Father Almighty, maker of heaven and earth, of all things visible and invisible: And in one Lord, Jesus Christ—_

“And his witch-mother, Maryam,” Merope mutters.

“What’s that, dear?” Mary stands five paces away, a pitcher with a long neck in her hand. They’re in Mary’s greenhouse, a place made of glass and filled with more pots than Merope can count. Only half of them are flowering, with the smell of lavender overpowering everything else.

“Jesus must’ve been a wizard,” Merope says. This greenhouse is the only place she can have opinions; Tom isn’t ever to hear about witches and wands and spells and potions.

“Oh, undoubtedly, dearest Merope,” says Mary. “Delightfully proficient in wandless magic. Now, don’t ever mention it to the pastor. It may no longer be legal to burn witches in Britain, but this is a small, backwards village, and you are still the tramp’s daughter.”

And she is never to forget that.

For all that the pastor speaks of forgiveness, salvation, and purity, his daughter does not live by those words. Oh, she is sweet on the children, wears light blues and yellows, has a rosy blush on her cheeks and keeps her golden hair in gentle, beautiful waves. Her words are soft and her laugh is dainty, as is her waist. Cecilia is an angel.

In older, darker days, Merope would have resented this angel for everything—her flaxen hair, her hazel eyes, her soft skin and the pinkness inherent to it. Her smile, like the Spring, is sweet, and her laughter recalls the rays of summer.

“What kind of name is Merope?” Cecilia asks once. It’s a Saturday this time, and the church is handing out food. Merope hadn’t even wanted to come, but the pastor had asked for her to help, and refusing hadn’t been in the options presented.

Merope shrugs. “It’s my name.”

None of the other girls bother her as much as Cecilia. In fact, of the ones that remain unmarried, all but the pastor’s daughter ignore her completely, preferring to keep company amongst themselves. It’s only a matter of time before Cecilia, too, is whisked away into a life full of husband and children; word is that Tom will have proposed to her by the end of summer.

Merope awaits this with anguish. It would end Cecilia’s reign of torment, and whatever hope she’d still had of Tom turning his affections towards her would finally die.

And so Merope spends all of July waiting, laid in the field near church. The sky is so bright and blue she ends up with spots in her eyes, but she loves the burn of it. Nothing like this could have come to her in that little patch of barren, overgrown wild land that she had left behind.

On one particular Sunday, Merope brings Macbeth along to read. By now she has read all the works of The Bard, devoured them so intently as to never forget them again. Macbeth, however, remains her favourite—the hubris, the prophecies, self-fulfilling, and Lady Macbeth in all her splendour, painting her hands in blood. There’s great poetry in that.

The sky is utterly, impossibly blue, with nary a cloud in sight. The meadow is Merope’s garden, her own place, and Marceline’s chance to unwind from Merope’s arm and lay about without a care, basking in the sun.

“Well, well,” a voice above her says. “We have a little witch out in the meadows; how quaint.”

It’s Cecilia, of course. Against all hope and rational thought, Merope had dared to believe that the angel of Little Hangleton would not come out to these sun-baked fields.

The mistake in judgement has her looking up at Cecilia’s beautiful face, golden hair haloed by the sun, her dress a light blue that is too perfect—whispy and fae-like just like Cecilia is.

Merope crawls back on her elbows. “I’m not a witch.”

“No?” The laugh is almost mocking. “Well, I am.”

 _You haven’t a clue what you’re saying._ Cecilia lives in a world of rosemaries and credos, of postmen and perfume and many mundane things. Wands and spells are as foreign to her as owls that carry letters, or potions to cure boils. She probably hasn’t gone any farther than Great Hangleton.

Then again, neither has Merope.

“What do you want?”

Cecilia smiles indulgently. “I already have it.”

Her smile is beatific, and it sends a dreadful feeling to the pit of Merope’s stomach. Would her name be made fun of today? Would there be questions about her eye-glasses, to be spoken of and giggled at behind her back?

But Cecilia folds her knees and sits on the grass, looking far too pleased with herself. “Why do you come here, dear little Merope?”

“What’s it to you?” Merope’s pulse picks up, an unpleasant sensation that she associates with her father’s malcontent, with the many swings of his mood and the selfsame swings of his fists.

Quieter, voice a hint deeper, Cecilia admits, “I watch you from my little window. You’ve never come to this meadow before, but now you are here every Sunday. Tell me, what is it that you read so fervently?”

She is close, her scent sending Merope’s pulse in a frenzy. It’s not an unpleasant perfume, in fact, Merope breathes it in and is mesmerised, then has to shake her head.

“You watch me,” she says, voice rough. “From your _window?_ ”

“Shouldn’t I watch you?” Cecilia demands. “You’re always watching Tom, like a little spy in the woods. I’ve seen you, hanging out of _your_ little window.” She sits up straighter, grabs Merope’s wrist. “Why is it that you always watch him? What makes _him_ so special?”

“Leave me _be,_ ” Merope cries out. Clouds gather overhead, dark, thundering, laden with heavy drops. She needs to get _away_ , but Cecilia still has her wrist, and she’s not letting go.

“Do you love him?” Cecilia asks, still demanding. “Is that it? He won’t give you anything, you know? No girl is ever good enough for Tom.”

“But he’ll propose to you,” says Merope.

“Oh?” Cecilia laughs. “He wouldn’t dream of it. I would _humiliate_ him. It would be a farce of a marriage, and we’d both know it.”

“What do you want,” Merope asks again.

Finally, Cecilia’s fingers loosen. “Darling, I already have it.”

She is so near. Her breath smells of apples, of salt. Unbidden, Merope’s eyes drop to Cecilia’s rosy lips, then to her neck. She is shapely, her bosoms heaving gently, her perfume of faint roses, her fingers now caressing Merope’s wrist. All of Cecilia appears...kissable.

“No—” Merope flings herself back, and in the surprise Cecilia finally lets her go. The sun is gone now, but Cecilia is still so bright, and she has Merope’s cheeks _burning_.

She can’t be having these thoughts. She hadn’t even had these thoughts about _Tom_ , and that is the natural order of things. This—this is better in every respect, and the feeling surges from somewhere deep, makes her head dizzy, and it would be so _good_ to just give in.

“Merope,” Cecilia murmurs, the sound lush on her lips. She reaches out again—

“No!” Merope shouts. She hisses, “ _Stop.”_

Hidden in the grass, Marceline shoots out, fangs bared. Cecilia sees the adder too late, and so Marceline sinks her teeth in that white-golden skin of her wrist.

Cecilia doesn’t scream. Her face contorts—not in fear, just the surprise of pain. Marceline let’s go before she is flinged back into the grass, left there for Merope to gather up and _run._

The heavens break open. Merope is sopping wet when she returns to the Riddle home, and it’s a small miracle that she doesn’t track mud everywhere. Marceline hisses in cold displeasure, her grip on Merope’s wrist tightening until it’s unbearable.

It’s nothing like Cecilia’s grip, urgent, demanding.

A maid intercepts her and has her brought before Mary. By then Merope is shivering, and the heat of the hearth is too far. Her hostess is not interested in any of this; she regards Merope with the sort of amused calm reserved for misbehaving children.

“So,” says Mary, her cigarette held between two fingers. “A snake bit the pastor’s daughter. A little adder hidden in the grass, she claims.”

Merope squares her shoulders. “Marceline is not to blame.”

“Marceline?” Mary’s brows arch. “Oh, no, dear child, I am much more interested in the one who commanded her.” She taps the cigarette, allowing the ash to fall to pieces in the tray. “Have you any idea how rare Parselmouths are? I’ve never met one until now.”

Confused, Merope shakes her head. “Morfin was the Parselmouth. Father said—”

“I know Marvolo’s opinions,” says Mary. “But men are not the most observant of creatures, and they rarely know the ways of magic.”

Mouth pressed in a thin line, Merope stands there with her shoulders bowed. So what if she is a Parselmouth? So what if her father had once claimed only wizardkind can be such? In her broils a storm, the same storm that has broken open the skies. Despite her shivers, the mere thought of Cecilia has brought warmth flooding back to her cheeks, the somewhere deep in her body.

“Is she all right?” she asks Mary. “Will Cecilia be all right?”

Mary waves dismissively. “The pastor’s child will live. Now go get cleaned up; we’ve work to do.”

Relieved, Merope retreats to her room. She lays Marceline by the window, the furthest away from the room’s hearth. The adder hisses in protest, but Merope concerns herself firstly with her wet clothes, then with her hair and glasses.

Never mind commanding Marceline—she had called the clouds. This weather is no mere accident; Mr Riddle’s little radio had foretold only sun and blue skies, not a blip of clouds and rain to be seen. This magnificent barrage is of Merope’s making.

The storm lasts the entire afternoon. Merope watches all of it from her window, until the only drops come down from the leaves. The last hours of sunlight come with clear blue skies, cloudless.

At night she dreams of Cecilia. They stand in the meadows, the sun bright, wind pulling at the flowers and the grass, at their dresses, at Cecilia’s hat. It’s like they live in a painting, and it’s lovely. They kiss.

“We need to have a ball, darling,” Mary says one afternoon to her husband.

It’s a cloudy kind of afternoon, the clouds begging to release their storm. A week has passed since Merope’s incident, and she had hurried back from Sunday school just to avoid Cecilia. The pastor’s daughter had looked to be well. She had looked to be _perfect_ , in fact, so perfect and beautiful that Merope’s pulse had gotten erratic again.

Mr Riddle looks over his newspaper at his wife. “A ball? What in the heavens for, Mary?”

“Why, to introduce Merope to society, of course, and not just the rabble of this village.”

Thomas sighs. “As you wish, my dear.”

With this decision come several days of fittings, fabric sampling, and another visit to the hair salon. The new dress is of the softest yellow, the beading pattern forming just the hint of scales all the way to the tips that caress the ground. For once, the heirloom necklace with its heavy locket _matches_ something, and Mary has earrings fashioned specifically for this purpose.

The train attached to the shoulders of her dress is a soft, gossamer thing embroidered to glitter. Merope has never had the notion of what it is like to feel like a Goddess, but this must be it.

The night of the ball is hot, almost humid. Mary has had flowers installed everywhere fashionable, and the cooks have been busy building confections and baked goods. Music entices the guests to come in, to dance, to indulge for the evening, one that they may not forget.

People have come from all over, ‘all over’ being London high society. But Merope spots the local pastor and turns away before she can see Cecilia, who no doubt would be considered of good enough breeding to join the list of invitees.

Merope’s first dance is with Mr Riddle, who smiles at her when he takes her hand, and leads her into a whirl of movements. It’s dizzying, and likely the most fun Merope will have tonight; all of the boys her age mostly ignore her, and Tom spends most of the night traipsing from girl to pretty girl until finally Merope sees him hidden in a corner, whispering in the ear of a red-cheeked boy from Brighton. The boy laughs as f he’s heard the funniest joke of his life.

After three dances with Mr Riddle, the heat of the ballroom has become too much for her, and she spins her way away into the gardens. These are the last quiet places left, and a breath of fresh air will do her good.

She’s somehow gotten herself a glass of wine. It keeps the chill of the night at bay as the breeze tries to nip away at her nose and ears. Merope sits on a stone bench and rests her feet, aching already. Music wafts out in waves, happy, buoyant, carrying bursts of laughter with it. The yellow light leans long, makes the night seem bluer than usual, the grass dark, and the shadows of the flora mysterious.

Somewhere upstairs, Marceline has coiled herself upon Merope’s new books. She has now been forgiven and thus allowed near the hearth once more, provided Marceline remains a good little adder and bites no one else.

The remainder of the week has seen Merope sat in the gardens, reading the books Mrs Riddle had procured for her from this peculiar place called Diagon Alley. These books are _fascinating_ , teaching Merope not just the spells and their many uses, but their history and their development.

Without a wand, however, spells and charms, jinxes and curses are all elusive. Mary won’t chance an encounter with the Ministry, and so Merope must simply read and memorise, spending afternoons in the greenhouse perfecting her pronunciation and writing essays on the casting of _oppugno_ , the uses for mandrake, the brewing of dittany...

“Oh,” comes from the doorway, soft.

The last person Merope had wanted to see, the only person Merope had wanted to see, now stands silhouetted in the light. Cecilia is, as always, dressed in a light blue, the fabric from her knees down sheer and stopping short of her pretty white shoes.

They stare at each other, the air heavy between them, and Merope feeling many, many words die on her tongue, among them: _I’m sorry,_ and a relieved _I’m glad you are well_.

Her face must tell all of it, even in the dark, because Cecilia’s body _eases_ , and she takes that opportunity to come sit with Merope on the bench. Their fingers nearly touch, and by God, Merope wants them to.

There’s no expectation in this silence until there is, and Merope is perhaps a little drunk on wine, feeling a bit freer and perhaps even limber. Cecilia is not entirely sober herself, as the faint scent of alcohol on her breath attests. Perhaps that is why she feels so free to speak her mind.

Because she has taken this week to _think._ Because Tom had never looked at her, let alone spoken to her. Because Tom would never have her. Because Tom would always come by with Cecilia, riding on their tall and graceful horses. Rare would be the sight of him in the woods alone, but sometimes Merope would see Cecilia walk past, her steps slowing just slightly as she would come by the road. They had passed each other many a time, and Cecilia would look Merope over.

Not judging, Merope understands now. Just looking, memorising.

“I haven’t looked at Tom in a long time,” Merope admits into the silence.

“I know,” Cecilia says softly, “I know why you sent that adder after me.” She is so near, Merope can see the flecks of gold in her eyes, and the scent of her perfume is overwhelming. She leans in closer, and her hair brushes against Merope’s cheek. “Watch.”

She takes out a wand—apple wood, Merope notes absently. It’s rich in colour and sits comfortably in Cecilia’s grasp. With a flick of her delicate wrist, she whispers one word, “ _Avis._ ”

A flight of birds erupt from the tip of her wand—tiny, twittering, and glimmering turquoise. Smoke trails after them, but they fly unbothered, diving and swooping above their heads, feathers shimmering and iridescent. Merope has never _seen_ magic like this, creating beautiful things, so elegant. To her, magic has always been harsh, hissing with danger, cutting like jagged glass.

“ _Finite_.”

Just like that, the birds are gone. They go gentle-like, with a swish of Cecilia’s wand. The amazement they had brought Merope, however, stays.

“You’re a witch,” she whispers.

“I’m a witch,” Cecilia declares. “And so are you.”

With that, Merope’s world is yet again toppled, its boundaries crumbled and pushed beyond. Any line can throw witches and wizards, Merope knows, but to see it before her, dressed in pastel blues, with blond curls, hazel eyes, and pink lips is truly remarkable.

Somewhere, Merope is sure, Marvolo Gaunt is having a terrible day.

But not here. Here, Merope stares at Cecilia in wonder, the image of her shifting anew. The Ministry won’t bother them here; Mary had made sure all the right officials would look the other way, as some of her guests would be wizardkind, and with the amount of alcohol they would undoubtedly imbibe, it is nigh impossible to keep magic at bay.

None of that is as intriguing as the beguiling creature seated beside her, soft curls carried by the breeze. There in the dark, Merope’s dreams come true: their lips meet at last.

It’s a careful thing, mouths pressed, wanting, not aligned perfectly but _yearning_ for some deep, unnamable thing that waits within them. It’s the tenderest thing, an honour to feed into this hunger, to have the feeling so keenly reciprocated.

Her lips are parted, and the taste on them is Cecilia—sweet honey and a hint of something undecipherable, something hot that gently asks for more. Cecilia’s hand disappears under Merope’s skirt to find something forbidden, and Merope breaks the kiss to look.

“Shh,” Cecilia whispers. She nuzzles a place just below Merope’s jaw, kissing and nipping down her neck.

There is something inexplicable about being brought apart in the coolness of the night, as Merope’s skin becomes hotter. The impropriety of it heightens the sensation to unimaginable proportions, their illicit passion open to discovery at any moment, and Merope lets herself be subsumed completely to the pleasure until Cecilia brings her to a peak, and she falls apart completely, in the most unbecoming fashion.

Their breaths are heavy, and now it’s the fulfilment that they are drunk on. Cecilia smiles, properly satisfied with herself, watching quietly as Merope catches her breath, clinging desperately to the fabric of Cecilia’s dress, certain that she will unravel if they move.

In a tender, devastating gesture, Cecilia kisses Merope’s brow. It’s too much, and Merope pulls her in for a raw, ardent kiss that is bound to set them aflame again, chill breeze notwithstanding. Cecilia moans into it, the sound reverberating down her entire body, and her hand sneaks down her own skirt. Merope cups her angel face and brings her through it, riding every undulation until what she swallows is akin to a scream, and Cecilia is a trembling mess in her arms.

Laughter and music flit in and out from the party indoors. It’s an entirely different world, overbright and full of noise, nothing like the quiet the girls sit in, hearts racing still. This moment needs to last forever, because Merope will lose her mind if anything breaks it, the security of it, the sheer sanctity of their closeness.

“Merope?”

So of course it cannot last.

“Merope? Merope, there you are, dear,” Mary appears in the doorway, and the shadows must hide the flush on Merope’s cheeks, because Mary sees nothing amiss, not even in how close Cecilia is. “Come, dear girl; Mr Bambridge wants to speak with you about a job. He runs the _Daily Prophet,_ come now, please.”

It’s almost a pain, sharp and cruel, to part with Cecilia. Mary, however, is not a patient woman, and Merope would rather not test their luck. She is weak on her legs, but manages to stand upright, her dress falling back into place easily, and her spectacles just as quickly righted.

Mr Bambridge is a strange man. Strange in the same way as Mr Ogden had been strange—a quality of not quite fitting in, of not knowing _how_ to, despite this man being dressed properly. His moustache is impressive, not that Merope stares. That would be rude.

He thinks her intelligent enough to be his assistant. Merope is to begin her work in August, once his current secretary retires to start a family. Unmarried, unattached Merope is a splendid candidate and, Mary adds in hushed tones, this will introduce her to the very centre of magical society, taking her away from Little Hangleton and into London proper.

Merope has never wanted anything less.

On the morn thereafter, Cecilia rings at the door.

She carries a wicker basket with salted apples and wears a dress of the palest blue. Her wide sun hat casts a netted shadow over her face, but that does not dim her smile. She is here to take Merope swimming.

“Out by the lake,” she says softly. “You have a swimming suit, yes?”

Of course she does; Mary had made certain of it. Within fifteen minutes, Merope is ready to go, curious, butterflies dancing low in her belly. The mere notion that she would once again be alone with Cecilia, completely at her mercy, is tantalising, frightening.

The lake is some ways out of Little Hangleton, at the opposite end from where Merope had once lived. It’s a beautiful place reachable by a path that is nearly overgrown, marked only by a thin line of dirt where the pale flowers refuse to exist.

It’s the clearest water Merope has ever seen, its surface glittering. It’s early enough still that the sun is soft, and when the time comes to hide, the many trees will provide ample shade.

Aside from apples, Cecilia has brought a blue gingham blanket, and sweet lemon juice for them to drink. Once settled, Cecilia undresses easily to reveal a bathing suit in her familiar pale blue, her arms and legs now bare. She wriggles her toes and sighs happily.

“Won’t you take your dress off?” she asks innocently.

Nervous, Merope shrugs off her outer robe. Her bathing suit is a deep green with a white tie at the front. She’s never worn one before; it leaves her exposed in the worst way, aware of how her shoulders and hip bones still jut out despite two good months of hearty meals. Oh, she’d filled out some, no doubt, but she would never have a full, voluptuous figure like Cecilia does. She’d suffered malnutrition for too long.

“Did you get the job?” Cecilia asks, and with those simple words reminds Merope of the _misery_ that awaits in August.

“Yes,” she murmurs.

“Good.” Cecilia nods. “I’m to leave for London at the end of September.” She smiles. “I’ve saved enough Galleons to buy a little shop of my own, and it comes with a nice apartment on the first floor. Large bedroom. Large _bed._ ” She winks.

And just like that, London seems less bad. Mary’d been in a bit of a strop about accommodation in the big city, but here is an opportunity even _she_ could not deny, one that Merope will gladly take.

“But what do your parents think?” Merope asks. “You, cavorting with the pauper’s daughter? Rooming with me?”

Cecilia deepens her voice in mimicry, “It’s so very good of you, Cece, to show that poor girl how to be a proper member of society, to take her in and show her the way in the big city, like a true Christian.” Her voice returns to normal as she giggles. “I must confess, I’m no good at Christian values. I am _very_ good at being a witch.”

 _Witch._ The word sends a shiver through Merope, the memory of the previous night returning so vividly that her cheeks seem to catch flame. Cecilia smiles angelically, laughing the redder Merope becomes.

“Oh, you’re lovely with a blush; I shall have to try that often.”

She says that so _easily_ , as if she were stating the sky were blue.

Merope almost wouldn’t believe it, but Cecilia’s eyes don’t stray from her, as if she were the only thing worthy of attention.

“You’re always looking at me,” she says quietly, abashed.

“I like looking at you,” Cecilia says. “I’d like to know you.

“Why?”

“I’ve always thought you interesting.”

Merope gapes. “ _Why?_ ”

“Well, at first,” and here Cecilia pauses, mulls over her words. “At first I didn’t know why. But then I found out I was a witch, and a whole new world opened up to me. Suddenly, all those ugly words your brother would spit out started to make sense.” She sighs. “You were the only witch in our little village, and you were so alone. Like me.”

“I’m sorry about Morfin,” Merope says quickly.

Cecilia snorts. “I’m not. If he’d not been mean, I’d’ve never known. I’d’ve never looked at you proper.” She frowns. “I’ve said terrible things about your brother, and your father.”

Merope shrugs. “They are terrible people.”

Long ago, she had tried to imagine a life where they loved her. It had overlapped with a life where she was beautiful, a life where her surroundings were beautiful and they’d not lived in a dilapidated shack, and she’d not slept on the ground. Slowly, however, reality had settled in with its cruel claws.

Sometimes, she wakes in a cold sweat, dreading the daylight that would reveal this wondrous summer to be a fever dream, and she would open her eyes in fear that the soft bed would be a hard floor, and that she is seconds away from dying, her body finally succumbing to starvation.

It hasn’t yet.

It could at any moment. Merope is sitting by the lake, sharing the sun with the pastor’s daughter. She has _kissed_ the pastor’s daughter. Cecilia, who is also a witch.

“How did you find out?” Merope asks. “That you were a witch, that is.”

“Well, imagine my mother’s surprise,” Cecilia says, “when a witch one day knocks at her door, dressed in fine robes, and claims to have come for me.” She laughs. “I was a witch, you see. Father could never know. Mama convinced him I was to go to a respectable girl’s school up in the north, the sort run by nuns. I was to _never_ , under pain of death, to mention Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He never bothered asking much, assuming I was learning all the proper Christian things.”

Emboldened, Merope asks, “Is that where you learnt how to kiss?”

Cecilia laughs, a _true_ , genuine laugh that shakes her entire body. “Of course.” She walks her fingers up Merope’s arm. “I learnt many indecent things at Hogwarts.”

She takes Merope’s mouth in a full kiss, the kind that sends warm honey at the bottom of Merope’s belly. It’s a delightful thing, that feeling, and under the shade of that maple tree, Merope learns the many definitions of _indecency._

They swim in the clear lake, just the two of them in its blue waters. It’s far enough from civilisation that they can go with bare bodies, forgoing any notion of propriety, bathing in the sun. It’s in those afternoons that Merope learns about Cecilia in truth: she likes her apples salted and can bake most anything. Her favourite pastime is reading the kinds of books her father can never know about (Potions), and she dreams of opening her own little shop of herbs, masquerading perhaps as a tearoom.

Most importantly, Merope learns about herself: she likes her apples caramelised, she is not made for baking and will forever hate cooking, but her needlework is a _masterpiece_ , her favourite pastime aside from reading is watching Cecilia read, having Ceilia read _to_ her in that soft, melodious voice, and she _can_ do magic, as easily as taking breath.

Her wand comes to her from an acacia tree by the lake. It’s a bare branch, a strange thing with a natural handle. On a whim, she wraps it in a bundle of heather for a day and a night, and once Marceline has approved of it, Merope claims it and carries it with her, hidden in her pockets.

Some day, her first spell will come. Today she will swim with Cecilia, stealing kisses in sunlight and shadow both. She will walk the village with a crown of little white flowers, she will laugh like she never has before and none will be the wiser as to the power at her disposal.

‘ _Look th’innocent flower, but be the serpent under’t_ ,’ Lady Macbeth had said. Merope likes that.

On the twelfth day of Christmas, no drummers came a-drumming, but Morfin Gaunt returned to the run down shack he called home. His sister was not there, ready with a meal, eyes downcast. Instead, he learnt from the constable he accosted, Merope had permanently moved to London, taking up a room with the pastor's daughter. The Riddles had taken care of her these last six months until she had gotten a respectable job. The Riddles themselves were away for the holidays, and could not be called upon. No matter how much Morfin kicked, screamed— _muggles, filth, blood traitor_ —Merope would not return. 

In a small, quaint studio in the heart of London, Merope sits down with a cup of tea. A black cat climbs onto her lap, and she absently scratches its head. In fifteen minutes, the timer will whistle, and they will have cake. It will have cooled down by supper.

The apartment has a luxuriously large window from whence Merope can watch the people below. Snow has turned London white, making it strange to her anew. Yesterday she’d made her first snowman, and it still stands outside on the pavement, unbothered.

Somewhere else, Marceline hisses in her sleep. She has refused to go out, refused even to part with her cushion where it sits in front of the little hearth they’d acquired when the leaves had turned red. Then had come the snow, fluttering gently down from white-grey skies, bring along the cold temperatures that made home all that much cozier.

Cecilia passes by, humming. She sits next to Merope and passes her the wooden embroidery hoop; the soft yellows, browns and reds now only miss their stems and leaves, and Cecilia has brought her green thread.

“Do you like your tea?” Cecilia asks.

“Mhmm,” says Merope. “Is it a new blend?” It has hints of rose, of jasmine and things that remind Merope of an autumn that has long since left them. Her favourite blend had tasted of summer days spent by a lake, but this one comes close second.

“I’m experimenting,” Cecilia admits. “It’s not the best time, I know, but repeating the same tastes has gotten a bit dull.”

“I won’t complain.” Merope sips at her tea, enjoying the warmth of it, savouring the taste. She is spoilt rotten, and the feeling has yet to get old. She hopes it never will.

Merope picks up her needle, intent on finishing this little tablecloth before it’s time to sup. Before that, though, she taps Cecilia’s shoulder. Smiling, Cecilia leans in for the kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> th'innocent flower, the serpent under't A.K.A the three stages of Merope Gaunt: Gay Awakening, Gay Panic, and Gay Acceptance.


End file.
